


A Tangled Web

by Lyssandra_Med



Series: One-Shot [86]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Creature Fic, Creature Hermione Granger, Dark Hermione Granger, Driders, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Smut, Smut and Angst, This Fic is filled with Spiders, Veela
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29927862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyssandra_Med/pseuds/Lyssandra_Med
Summary: Fleur wriggled where she lay, strung up by arms and midsection. Her hands were stretched out and her arms pulled straight, her legs drawn up and to her sides.Hermione licked her lips, and chittered something that no human could understand.Or;A fic filled with spiders that is the Fleurmione bits expanded from my other fic that is filled with spiders
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley, Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Series: One-Shot [86]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1429282
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	A Tangled Web

**Author's Note:**

> unedited  
> Mentions of Bellamione near the end, but not explicit.  
> I wanted to draw out some of the Fleurmione aspects from the other fic in this series, since it didn't get much word time and I kinda don't have a muse for Bellamione at the moment.

Whenever Hermione spun a web it was an intricate layering of braids, silk that was flexible yet strong. Any simple struggle could not break the threads, and Fleur was more than willing to test that; the Veela was _eager,_ even. 

Birds were hunted down and murdered by some of Hermione’s kind - _her kind being spiders, arachnids, that which crawled on eight legs, spun webs and spit venom; her kind because she’d given up on calling herself human years ago, back when a Time-Turner gave her access to more of those than her classmates_ \- and they were strong, agile beings. One would need to be confident that they knew what they were doing, hunting, and Hermione decided on her prey with surety that could not be broken.

Fleur came willingly, however, and so the hunt was cut short.

Fleur was never one for half-measures, partiality. Her affections and attention were all magmatic, flowing bright and _furious._ One species would prey upon the other, and Hermione learned that lesson firsthand. Fleur came up to her, soft lips tilted into a beautiful curve, and grabbed Hermione from the seat she’d chosen in the back of the library. Her stance was all power and surety, no notion that she could fail existed within her mind. 

Hermione, however, was not one to back down from a potential fight, even if that fight was one for love instead of dinner. Two predators both vying to be on top; Fleur’s talons gripped Hermione’s biceps hard enough to leave cuts; Hermione’s chelicerae formed, waving, an awkward but potent attempt to ward Fleur off. No one was allowed to touch her, to _handle_ her; she was no common house spider, no sample to be collected and pinned up. No one _approached her,_ not without permission.

But Fleur was passion given wings, not a stranger to the odd or grotesque. Her own inheritances meant that there was a shifting quality to her form, her mind, a dysphoria her blood had overcome. She found no revulsion in the twist of Hermione’s body, her abdomen, the way her body skittered, loping, across the floors and walls.

Soft lips pushed past Hermione’s curved daggers; soft lips placed harshly onto her own. 

That motion led them both up, higher, sprinting to the seventh floor. The pleasure bursting underneath their skin led Fleur up along the wall, the rafters, Hermione stringing her up to be devoured. The room had conjured them an aviary; plenty of spaces that she could weave, lovely perches for Fleur to rest. The web Hermione wove was open and inviting, geometric inconsistencies that all revolved, evolved; spirals led down, down towards the centre and then back out again in specially tweaked ornamentation. 

Fleur wriggled where she lay, strung up by arms and midsection, hands stretched out and arms straight, her legs pulled up and to her sides, core revealed. Hermione licked her lips, chittered something that no one could understand.

The scent dripping from between Fleur’s legs was intoxicating, and Hermione could feel venom coating her lips, her tongue. Venom that she liberally applied to the slit between the Veela’s legs. Hermione nipped, sucked, twisted her lithe form until her lower body was spindly and too-legged, upside-down enough that she could present her anatomical differences for Fleur to taste, to touch.

She’d never had a tongue _there,_ not like _this,_ and the sensation nearly drove her mad.

Being upside-down wasn’t anything that had ever bothered Hermione, even before the Olde and Wilde had inhabited her body. She licked, drew patterns into Fleur’s thighs with sharpened claws. She was whole, there, hanging from the corners and clutching tightly to Fleur’s shivering body. She rode her crests, blinding orgasms that pushed her past boundaries, up, another trough leaving her free to force Fleur into another. The numbing of her venom was an itch, a prickle, a feeling of flushed heat that heightened sensation in other ways, little ways; Fleur gasped, panted, pleaded and cried, lyrical, to Hermione’s slowly sinking mind.

Hermione flexed once, twice, felt something within her _twist,_ out, body painfully rising to completion along with a scream that shook every spider within the castle.

\---

When Fleur strutted into the Hall with a dress made of silk that Hermione herself had spun, heads turned. Necks nearly shattered. It was easy enough to say that _all_ eyes were on her love-bird. They all wanted to know where she’d gotten such a _luxurious_ item; it was widely known that Acromantula silk went for hundreds of galleons per square metre, and this silk was so flawless, so perfect, so _different._ Even those whose dresses were made of silk seemed to pale in comparison. None of them could follow the light so well, all the flats mirrored and gleaming. None of the men could stop staring either; the women were all flushed with envy - _and, for some, no small amount of lust_ \- and the Professors all seemed torn between asking her to leave or admitting compliments.

Fleur hid one shoulder beneath the fabric, the other bare. The angle she was draped in tilted, rotated, opposing leg revealed to mid-thigh while the other remained concealed down to the floor. A slit rose along her back, bulbous in three spots and cinched to mimic Hermione’s form; her spindly legs mere creases of fabric that stretched out onto her sides. Fleur’s subtle sign that she was claimed, even if no one else could understand what that symbol meant.

 _Some_ knew. They were few and far between, though, and Hermione’s status as inhuman was enough to keep them from commenting on it.

She’d made sure of that.

Hermione doted upon Fleur’s arm, her own dress taken from Fleur’s input without any protestation. Feathers tipped in steel-blue, the centre’s all white, each of them plucked - _and then healed_ \- from Fleur’s own wings. The process had been repeated until, eventually, there had been enough to assemble a gown to rival Fleur’s. Held together by silk, slimmed in places to catch the eye, drawn out lines and silent ruffles that were so much more _frilly_ than something Hermione would choose on her own. 

All the eyes turned to her once Fleur’s beauty became too bright for them to handle. The other attendees gave them a wide berth, no one willing to come too close. They could feel heat roiling off of Fleur’s body, could feel the blackened magic that doused Hermione’s soul, their shared gaze predatory enough to send hapless dancers into reptilian-brained terror.

They decided to treat the night as a masked ball; no one would dare to dissuade them. The Champion and her paramour? They’d never even _think_ of it. A raptor peered over Hermione’s face, black as obsidian and just as sharp. Fleur wore a veil with six false eyes and holes left open for her own, each of them red and seeming to rove maliciously as she flitted about the room.

They danced with one another the whole night, and when they finally were left alone on the floor, they shared a kiss far sweeter than anything Hermione could have ever imagined.

\---

Poison, venom, and potions were all finicky, tricky things. They had to be delivered with deliberate care. Each needed to be tuned and applied in proportion to their need. No miscalculation could be present. The prey, or person, could take too much and suffer ill effects that were never planned on. Or, they could take too little, and nothing at all might happen.

Unfortunately, the designers of the Tri-Wizard Tournament seemed to believe that Hermione was _normal._ Dumbledore hadn’t corrected their assumptions, and she couldn’t imagine whether that was because he wanted to protect her or if he delighted in seeing what might happen.

Probably the latter.

The potion she’d been duped into consuming wore off before it had a chance to be truly effective. She’d been conscious, her eyes closed and body lax. It faded from her system with a gasp, her heart pounding as the chemicals burned out. When she was finally freed from its effects, bodies were trying to drag her - _and three others_ \- down into the depths of the lake. She blinked and groaned, and when a webbed hand clenched tighter to her ankle she shivered, violently shifting into a more impressive form.

“Oh bloody fuck,” exclaimed a man’s voice from right behind her, gasping just as Hermione whirled up from the water to face it.

The lanky ministry fellow who’d been set to running all the events was staring back at her with surprise and fright gleaming in his eyes. Hermione glanced around as he remained stricken of voice or movement. No one else, just three bodies disappearing behind her, three more passing over the hill that led towards the castle. None seemed to care about her except the bodies behind her; merfolk, she noticed, tugging the sleeping form beneath the gently lapping waves. Hermione froze up then, her human and spider halves in sync.

She could guess why she’d been brought down here. She’d listened intently to Harry explaining his egg and had tried to pass the information onto Fleur, who’d then rebuffed her.

She had been chosen as an unwilling sacrifice; who in their right mind would volunteer for something like this? Who’d allow themself to be dragged down to the bottom of a lake, potentially never to return?

Hermione twisted a hand towards the official and whispered, _“Obliviate.”_

His eyes misted, turned lilac, the memory of what he’d seen erased as he slumped down onto the ground. Hermione turned back towards the impatiently waiting merfolk, their fins and tails thrashing at the edges of the lake.

Her body shifted back, mostly, abdomen and thorax disappearing into legs that were spindly and hard; dull bronze chitin climbed up onto her belly, her ribs, an armour that the creatures could not penetrate. Halfway towards half, or close enough to suit her purposes. She gulped air, wove a web of magic and silk into a net that held breath for her. 

The balloon caught as she moved into the water, her charm holding tight even as she descended away from the fading light of the moon. Merfolk swarmed her as she dove, never coming near enough to touch but close enough to glare and scream. Predator meeting predator, she supposed, and none of them wanting to chance an actual altercation. She didn’t know what it was that Dumbledore had promised them for this act, this trial, but she supposed it would all be negated should she attempt to harm them, or they, her.

Her lips brushed the surface of the bubble, inhaling, down into frigid depths kept away only by the thickness of her chitin. The other three trophies were down there, each threaded in place and sleeping.

While the merfolk refused to touch her she perched, devoid of their trappings and under her own free will.

\---

She was running, sprinting on eight legs to keep up with Harry’s movements, but she just wasn’t _big enough_ to keep up with him. Not now, not unless she changed or jumped, rode along-

\---

 _“I don’t want you to go,”_ Hermione whispered, her voice lost within the crook of Fleur’s neck.

Emotion didn’t come easy to her now, not like this. It was a special moment, no matter how much it hurt her. Fleur shivered and held her close, radiated heat and flame, fire on the breath of a phoenix. Hermione, as chilled as she was, could barely feel it. 

She felt agonisingly _numb_ underneath all the pressure of the last few hours; her hurt was not enough to break through _that._

She had run off at the first opportunity and left Harry leaning into Ginny’s side. Now she was here, in the Beauxbatons carriage, hidden within the depths of Fleur’s vastly enchanted room. But Fleur would leave tomorrow, and now nowhere felt like home. Fleur had _been_ her home, but it was never one she’d be able to keep. It was a home she’d likely not see again, and even if she did, then it would be years from now. 

Fleur would find a job and begin working as soon as her term ended. She’d go off into the wider world, find a job and something else - _or someone else_ \- to occupy her time. 

It wouldn’t be Hermione. It couldn’t be her, not the beast that she’d become. _Thing._ _Monster._ A creature craving simple affection that didn’t come on the knifepoint of aggression. Magic twisted in her gut, a roil that left spines and spikes erupting from hardened skin, body split between human and spider. Her legs wrapped Fleur until she could no longer move, the both of them one being, one creature, one heart beating twice as fast.

Fleur leaned into her as much as she could and tore silk apart, wrapped Hermione into a crushing hug and let her feathers tickle Hermione’s nose. 

_“But I must,”_ Fleur whispered back, a string of expletives and promises following those words. 

Pleas from fervent lips, hushed love amid predatory silence.

\---

When Fleur left with Beauxbatons her uniform hid bites and scratches, the pinprick signs of injections that’d kept her up all night. She’d twisted, just as feverish as Hermione, in those pale few hours before the dawn. Each sought to trace each moment of their affections into the other desperately; a need built together over the months. Hermione promised letters, expectations of a summer meeting if they could swing it.

The last thing that Fleur left her with was a kiss in front of everyone, every student and every Professor turning heads to see the woman who’d so obviously plucked her heart.

The love failed to blossom. Hermione remained locked up and alone that summer, all but forgotten until the Order had finally formed and then retrieved her from an empty home.

Letters were exchanged as much as possible, all of them vapid and empty after Order approved wipes.

None of it was what she needed.

_None of it._

\---

When Hermione slipped her noose about the Toad’s neck, she spread her maw and wondered, just for a moment, just what her little love-bird would think of this. What she’d say.

Nothing good, Hermione reasoned, hurrying up with her meal.

\---

When Hermione finally landed in front of Shell Cottage she ditched the lower portion of her anatomy for something more familiar to her old friends. The loop of her collar was a balm, cold enough she could hold onto it and remember where she’d come from. Everything else was unabashedly open, revealed, Harry averting his gaze and blushing awkwardly. She’d lost whatever sort of modesty she’d once had, and her body shifted so often now that it hardly mattered to her whether she was clothed or not. 

She was naked in any form, this one no more than the last.

The crushed shells bit into her heels, the flat of her foot, scratched her and left her wishing for harder skin. The duo at her side likely wouldn’t appreciate that, though, and so she stayed as uncomfortable as she could. The warm bodies hiding inside the house wouldn’t appreciate it either, she thought, and so instead she shuffled from side to side. She could sense all of them, barely, her magic reaching out to curl innocently around their own. 

The door opened, and her magic _sparked._ Blue eyes, a piercing glare.

_“Hermione?”_

\---

Hermione sucked in her courage and stated it plainly, finding no reason to beat around the truth.

“So, you’ve changed.”

Banal. It covered everything that lay between them. Fleur, for her part, didn’t seem quite bothered by it.

Hermione let her eyes rove around the room, the floor, the light dress that Fleur had tossed to her once she’d stepped inside. 

“A little bit,” Fleur finally answered. She took pity on Hermione and the stiff mood they’d both fallen into. “So’ve you, little spider.”

“Not so little, anymore,” Hermione answered, grinning.

It wasn’t a lie. Hermione was much taller now, centimetres above Fleur, long-limbed and feral, wiry. Golden light suffused the room as she shifted, her chitin glorious to behold. Consequences of a proper diet, no matter how _improper_ that diet seemed.

Fleur moved forward, quite unafraid, and ran her hands down the bend between trochanter and tibia. 

“What species? Muggle? Magical?”

Hermione grinned, venom dripping from her fangs and chelicerae. “A little bit of Nephila, a little bit of Acromantula. My own mix, stable enough for the most part.”

The hands on her legs stilled and then pulled back, Fleur silent and aware of the chasm between them both. Hermione noted her eyes were full of sorrow, exhaustion settling in as she curled up her legs and relaxed onto the ground. 

“So. Bill?”

Fleur wrapped her arms around herself, “Bill. You never returned my letters.”

Shame blossomed in the pit of Hermione’s heart and then fled, banished. Hermione hadn’t been there to answer, and she took the time to explain that adequately. _All of it._ Every little detail that she could dredge up to explain the years she’d spent away. The things that she’d done, _wanted_ to do, _would_ do. How she planned on leaving them just as soon as she could manage it. How she’d found a lover in Bellatrix’s madness. How she’d established a home with others that wouldn’t seek to harm her. 

They both gave answers. Fleur dried her tears on silk, wiped away Hermione’s with a warm thumb.

A promise, and then Fleur left Hermione to her nest.


End file.
